


Protanopia

by orphan_account



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust Being Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Awkward Flirting, Color Blindness, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sex Repulsed Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Sexual Humor, Threats of Violence, Touch-Averse Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), there's like one joke ok, two threats from alastor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Angel attempts to woo the Radio Demon.It doesn't go as expected--namely because Angel makes a discovery neither of them were aware of.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 688





	Protanopia

Angel can’t believe what he’s hearing.

A simple romantic gesture. That’s all he meant by it; just a bundle of flowers handed over when they had a moment alone, hand-picked for that annoying ass deer he’s been so enamored with the past couple of weeks, the only person who’s been so insistent on avoiding his advances and even showing disgust at the idea of sleeping with him. Angel could admire someone like that; someone who could look past his persona in favor of just him, focused solely on the real him he hid daily under his sexual jokes and confident front, ignoring the lustful aura he gave off and recoiling at even the slightest touch. Really—nobody had ever done that to him before, and he _craved_ that. Needed it, even.

But his first attempt at trying to win Alastor over blows up in his face almost immediately when the other demon promptly rejects his flowers, calling the exotic display a pathetic collection of mush-colored weeds.

Which doesn’t make a lick of sense, considering Angel had put a damn good amount of effort into making this assortment look like a damn _rainbow_ , including just about any color he could think of.

Colors Alastor _apparently couldn’t see._

“Al, what color are these flowers?”

“Brown.”

“Even these ones?”

“ _Especially_ those ones. Is there a reason you’re pestering me with these ridiculous questions, darling? It’s a bit too early for your pranks.”

Angel doesn’t let up. Setting the bouquet aside on a nearby bookshelf, he reaches forward, grabbing onto Alastor’s sleeve and tugging on it. “And this?” he presses on, mouth pulled into a frown. “What color is this?”

Alastor stares at him with unblinking eyes and an unwavering smile. He looks between the spider demon and his sleeve, roughly pulling himself free and smoothing out his suit. “Brown,” he grounds out through his clenched teeth, static picking up in volume.

“You sure?”

“Angel Dust, I am as sure that it is brown as I am sure that if you continue to irritate me like this, you will reach oblivion sooner than Charlie can break into one of her songs. Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Red.”

Alastor pauses. He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut and sighing, his smile twitching at the corners. He fixes Angel with as much as a glare as he can with his ever-present smile, “What?”

Angel gestures to the deer demon’s suit, “Your suit. It’s red.”

Alastor looks down at himself. “…No, I’m pretty sure that’s brown.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be wrong. Not brown—red.” Angel points at his own suit. “What color’re my clothes?”

Alastor narrows his eyes. Leans forward. “…Grey?”

“Pink.”

The other demon’s smile twitches. Lessens—but never fully fades. “…Ah.”

Sighing, Angel picks up the bouquet again, picking out individual flowers and listing them off one by one, “these ones’re purple, these are also red, this one’s pink, these are orange…”

Alastor watches him in silence, annoyance melting into a mere curiosity as he leans forward on his microphone, staring intently at the spider. When the other is finished, he hums, picking up one of the flowers and touching the flowers almost delicately. His smile falters. “…This is orange?” he asks, his voice barely heard within the gentle hum of static.

“Yeah, that’s orange.”

“It looks…almost grey.”

“Nah, it’s orange.”

“Interesting.” Alastor looks down at his suit again, “And this is red, you said?”

Angel nods. “Al, are you colorblind?” he asks finally, leaning forward. “I mean, you don’t gotta answer, I think I figured it out myself. But, still—you’re like, always wearin’ vibrant colors, so I never really thought you couldn’t see ’em.”

Alastor hums, twisting his microphone in his hands. “If I’m being honest, I never noticed,” he states plainly, shrugging at Angel’s disbelieving look. “What? My expectations for what Hell would be like were nothing at all—I had no idea what to expect after I died. Waking up here to find everything boring and dull seemed to be fitting for a place like this—why should I question the appearance of a place known for tormenting and punishing its inhabitants?”

Alright, he had a point there. “So, you’re saying that you could see color before?” Angel asks. “When you were alive, I mean.”

“I believe so…” Alastor trails off, his deer ears flicking back as he thinks it over, his face clouding over as his mind drifts back to his human life. His gaze grows distant, fixated on some point on the wall over Angel’s shoulder, before he snaps back to the present, shaking his head. “…I try not to think about it too much. Besides, I’ve made it this far without seeing the world the way you do, so I’m certain it doesn’t matter, now, does it?”

Angel scoffs, crossing his arms underneath his chest, “It does when it gets in the way of my flirting.”

“What was that, dear?”

“I said it doesn’t, even if it _is_ annoying.” Angel rolls his eyes, clearing his throat and turning away, trying his best to hold back the tears in his eyes. “Sorry for pointing it out. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair—”

He’s stopped by a hand on his wrist.

“ _Wait_.”

Angel’s breath catches in his throat, the spider turning around to find a surprising sight: namely, the deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression currently written on Alastor’s face.

The shorter demon pauses, looking between Angel and the flowers, before he reaches out, taking the bouquet from him and saying, “I suppose I should accept these then, considering you went to all sorts of trouble to pick them out. It would be rude of me otherwise—that, and it would be dreadful to have you moping about the place for the rest of the day. I prefer my entertainment to be in good spirits.”

Angel feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “You don’t gotta, Al. It’s fine, I could always get something else—”

“Nonsense! If anyone should be retrieving another gift, it’s me! It’s only proper if we’re going to court one another.”

“I—wait, what?”

Alastor laughs. “Do you really think I’m that ignorant to romance, Angel Dust? I may be disgusted by physical relationships, but I’m no idiot when it comes to dating.” He tosses the bouquet back and forth in his hands, giving the other a winning smile. “And I went on quite the number of dates back in the day. Both women and men, as a matter of fact—I was quite the charmer, I’ll have you know.”

Oh, that should not arouse him as much as it does. Still, Angel rocks back on his heels and runs his fingers through his hair, coughing into one of his fists. “Ha—well, I’ll be damned. And here I thought you were a one-man-band.”

“I am not above reorganizing your organs if you make another one of your sexual jokes, my friend.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it, dear.”

“…Sorry.”

Alastor shakes his head, smile widening. With a snap of his fingers, the bouquet vanishes, the radio-host turning on his heel and starting down the hall. Then, right before he rounds the corner, he stops, looking over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “I would suggest you cancel any plans you have tonight. Anything passed six, specifically—I know the perfect place for a dinner date!”

He leaves, taking with him the air from Angel’s lungs, who promptly leans against the wall and covers his face with his hands. “I’m so fucked,” he grumbles into his fingers. “And I don’t even _get_ a proper fucking out of this kind of fucked.”

Off in his room, Alastor’s smile slips off his face, the deer demon shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, grimacing. “…Do I really wear this much red?”

**Author's Note:**

> Deer are partially colorblind.
> 
> Demons in this 'verse take on certain attributes of the animals they represent.
> 
> Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that Alastor can't see red. 
> 
> It's painfully ironic given his wardrobe. 
> 
> Been a while since I've written something shippy, hope it's okay for a start! May try to branch out more in the future--stay tuned!  
> -ProPulse


End file.
